


This was the ineluctable consequence of how we love

by Baryshnikov



Series: Where Monsters lie [11]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Because if not it is now, Blood, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Tom Riddle, Doing it all for love, Erotic cannibalism, Erotic murder, M/M, Masochism, Mutual murder, POV Second Person, Sensual gore, Stabbing, Stream of Consciousness, True Love, Violence, Vivisection, is that a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 06:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17913176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Because you thought he loved you.





	This was the ineluctable consequence of how we love

**Author's Note:**

> This is disgusting and I apologise for writing it. 
> 
> Also, I'm pretty sure most of this is medically impossible so sorry for anyone who likes realism. 
> 
> From Tom's perspective

You smile at him because he has no idea what you are about to do. You have been thinking about it for far too long, and tonight is the night; tonight you are going to kill him. He has been boring you with his self-righteousness, with his inability to see that he will be used and manipulated, expended and thrown away. He does not see that you offer him a different life. All he sees is your friendship, your front that you play for him, and you are getting bored of doing that. He was fun while he lasted, but you are not one to waste your time on things that are immune to your charms. Those who do not dance to your tune are not worthy of your attention, and he must learn that now. He has become a distraction to you, a liability that you cannot afford to have. The way he smiles makes you sick, and yet, you like to see him do it, and there are other things you’d like to see him do. The only logical conclusion is for him to die, and the only way it can be done is by you. That is why you sit so close to him, fingers tracing his collarbones, waiting for the moment they can wrap around his shoulder and drag him onto your knife. He is following your movements, as he always does because he is a sheep who cannot see how extraordinary he is. He looks at you like all the others do, and you are so bored. You thought he would be different, but he is a disappointment. So much so, that you ignore how nice his nails feel as they dig into your neck, pulling you a little closer to his face. Instead, you smile at him, smile the way he loves you to, the way you have done so many times before, and he smiles back, nails digging deeper. You clench your own fingers, force half-moons into his own skin. Your mouths are only inches from each other, and the moment just feels so perfect. It is made complete when you pull him forward, before he can stop you, and root your knife in his stomach. That perfect moment completed. It is ruined a second later though because you feel a throbbing in your abdomen. You look down and can’t quite believe what you see. Your knife is embedded in his stomach, exactly where it should be, but he has also embedded a knife, only his is in _your_ stomach. You stare at him, for a moment, in disbelief. 

Because you thought he loved you. 

Neither of you moves, neither of you dares for fear of what the other will do. You stay there, the sharp ache starting to curl upwards along your spine, and you bet he is feeling the same. That same terrible sensation, the realisation slowly seeping into your fogged minds that you both will die at each other’s hands. You have to bite your lip, take a moment to calm your thudding heart and try to steady your breathing. The pain grows, and he twists his knife, so you twist yours. Both of you shudder and he closes his eyes for a second. Your mouth is so dry and swallowing only seems to make it worse. You have never been stabbed before, and you doubt he has either. Although it hurts, it feels strange, as if every time he twists it, he opens a subconscious part of you up a little more. That makes you uncomfortable. But you can’t stop him, just as he cannot stop you. Instead, the two of you are locked forever in this embrace. Mere inches from one another, fingers touching each other’s skin because your knives are buried to the handle in each other’s bodies. You should have known you’d kill each other eventually, like some twisted form of Romeo and Juliet. But instead of dying for love, you have killed for it. You never thought he had it in him to do that to you though. He had always resisted every little urge, every tiny suggestion that you made was met with absolute disdain, as though he possessed some inherent moral goodness. You are not sure whether you like knowing that it was a false front, that while he smiled like an angel, he was plotting to kill you. You wonder briefly whether he planned to take your place, whether this was his attempt to take over all that you had become. If it was, he clearly never really knew you. If it wasn’t, then you wonder why he did it.  
Despite it being inappropriate you laugh, how can you not? It is comical that you both chose today, a year since you met him in the flesh, a year since you smiled and touched his shoulder, and he blushed and stared. Comical that you both chose a knife, to get to so close and personal with it, to see and smell and taste murder on your tongue, to forever feel the acrid burn in your stomach of doing something so monstrous. Comical that you both chose that moment when you were on the edge of the fantastic, so deep into each other, neither of you saw it coming. It just proves everything you’ve been trying to tell him, everything he had so stubbornly been refusing to accept. You two are just alike. He is your shadow, your imperfect doppelganger, the one who could have turned your black and white world into a kaleidoscope of colour. Perhaps he sees it now, now that he can’t embrace it, and you can’t mould it. Perhaps when he is dying, he will finally understand how much fun you could have had together, how much power lay within you both, just waiting to be used. But he has thrown that all away in name of killing you, and really it is your fault. 

Because you thought he loved you. 

The blood stains your shirt and his shirt. Blooming out in great beautiful circles that expand over the white fabrics, staining them beyond repair. Soon they aren’t circles, they’re just marks, just red blotches counting down the minutes you have left alive. They are your timers but you have no need for them, you do not want to know how little time you may have left.  
You pull out your knife, and he follows suit. The blood bubbles again, pouring slowly through the white and marking your trousers, it won’t be long before the sofa is slicked with blood. You don’t want to wait for that. You just want to get it over with, to stop feeling blood saturate everything you touch. You narrow your eyes when he pays too much attention to your fingers undoing the top buttons of your shirt. You stop, purely out of curiosity. His eyes raise to meet yours, and he visibly swallows. There is a strange look in his face, as though he can’t quite believe what he has done. The knife still hangs limp in his hand, and his face is ever so pale. You hope he doesn’t pass out, it would really make the final minutes a little too tedious. So, you just watch him, watch how he licks his lips almost subconsciously when your fingers go back to sliding buttons through holes.  
You do not expect what he does next, but nor can you stop it. He kisses you, even though you are both bleeding to death. What is perhaps more surprising for someone who just stabbed you, is how gentle he is, how cautious, as though he does not wish you harm. You hate yourself for kissing him back, a natural reaction, a failure to control yourself, a failure to hide that you are several steps behind him. Now you’re kissing him though, and you don’t want to stop. For his mouth tastes nice and you can feel all sorts of interesting secrets hidden under his tongue. You can’t help yourself as your fingers trail downward, feeling how wet his shirt is, you twist your fingers into it, almost hoping that they will be stained forever with his blood. Then you’re undoing its buttons, wanting, more than anything in the world, to see what you did. To trace that nasty cut and feel the blood on your fingers, and ingrain it into your skin, so that everyone will know who killed him. He seems to have different ideas. He drags off your shirt and mouths at your neck, and you won’t lie, it feels good. You suppose it is better to be distracted as you die, so you pull off his shirt and kiss him back.  
The two of you stagger, still tasting the corners of each other’s mouth, to the bed, to the white sheets where you can paint the last moments of your life in great sweeping lines of red. It is disgusting and oh so good. Both of you leaving streaks of blood all over each other, handprints and fingerprints merging together until you both become living works of art. There is an ache in the back of your head that says you should not be doing this, that pushing him on his back and watching the blood drip from your stomach onto his chest, is the worst way comprehensible, of spending your last minutes. But you ignore that because you want to know why he did that to you. 

Because you thought he loved you. 

His hands follow your own, as they trace down, running the tips of your fingers along the edge of the gash. Then you slide in. Your fingers dipping into each other’s bodies. You wince at the pain of having someone else inside you, all the while feeling inside him. His hands are stroking and then hooking themselves around your intestines, and the drag of his nails on your insides is utterly exquisite. You’re sick, but at least you know he is too. You feel so foolish for not seeing it, for not appreciating what was under his skin, for not investing your time in finding a way to let it out.  
You both look at each other, both knowing exactly what you are about to do. The knife does not hurt as much the second time, a dull throb, and then a sting as it is dragged upward, cutting you further open. For the first time in your life, you are grateful that you are forced onto your back, and as you lie there you can feel there are great cavities inside you, that seem to be spreading wider and wider as he digs the knife deeper into you, opening you up for him and only him. You should be disgusted, repulsed, sickened by what he is doing, by what you are doing at the same time to him. But you can’t. Not when those holes are spreading, stretching your skin, and making something coil in your stomach. The only compensation for making you lose your focus like this is that he is exactly the same. You suppose that the image he projects is also the one you do; that your hair is a mess and your eyes are too dark and there is a flush on your cheeks. That you look absolutely ruined and its all his fault, all the fault of that long red line, though it is hardly a mere line anymore, that now runs from your stomach to your ribs. He has his own line. Thick and red and burning. Though you do not speak, you both pull out your knives together, drop them by your sides because they are no longer important. What is important now, is the feeling of being inside each other. Running your fingers all over the parts of him no one else has ever had the privilege of seeing. Digging your nails into his organs and hearing him moan, and hearing your own pathetic sounds when he buries his fingers so deep. Sliding them under your ribs and stroking your lungs. Those holes stretch wider, dark empty spaces dragging you towards something so painfully gorgeous that you almost forget what you were supposed to be doing. That you are supposed to be punishing him for what he had the audacity to do. You are supposed to be the one above him forcing him to wince and whine and beg you to stop. You reach up and slide your fingers into him, both of you watch, mesmerised by the depravity of it all. The sheer degeneracy that it takes to force your fingers into someone else, to hook them and to curl them around parts of him you can’t see. To force them deeper until his eyes are scrunched shut and he is slurring his words. The insides of other people feel strange. The softness surprises you, how weak people are on the inside, though _he_ is not as weak as you thought. He played you, outmanoeuvred you, and you never even saw it coming, because him killing you was never part of your plan.

Because you thought he loved you. 

You are both lying so close together, one hand buried deep inside each other, the other holding the back of the other’s neck. The bed sheets are stained red, and soaked through, though neither of you cares. All you can think about is the smell of death and the colour of his eyes this close up. You’ve never been this close to anyone before, never felt like this before, never been stretched open and had someone else hold your heart. You can feel his fingers as they scrape your flesh, and you can feel your own fingers as the tips stroke his flesh. You want to tear out his heart, show him right for killing you like this, for making you feel like this, for doing everything he is doing like this. The coiling in your stomach still not leaving, no matter much you will it to. Instead, it twists and twists and twists until it aches so much, and you want to cry out. You want to ruin him forever, mutilate him because you can, tear apart everything he has left, and you can see behind his eyes, he wants to do exactly the same thing to you. Complete this thing, whatever he wants to call it, though he probably thinks he’s so clever, that he has torn you to pieces and now you are nothing. That is not the case. He may have surprised you, but you’re not stupid, you have your hand wrapped around his heart, you can feel it pulsing. You can make him choke if you squeeze it, and you will because it is the most pain you can cause him without ruining the moment. You clench your fingers and watch him shudder. Instantly you feel him return the gesture, and it is the most beautiful feeling in the world. His hand holding your heart, his eyes staring into yours. Perhaps it is not the time, but still, you have to admire how gorgeous he looks under these artificial lights, how gorgeous in the green glow of the world. You believed he thought the same, now you are not so sure. You believed that he thought you were the most gorgeous creature to ever walk the earth. You thought that he was obsessed, the way he looked at you like a sick puppy that was waiting for its master. You kiss him again even though you know you shouldn’t kiss him just to convince yourself that there was something in his gaze. There was. You can taste it on the tip of his tongue. So plainly, it is betrayal, as simple as that. He betrayed you, and you simply can’t wait any longer for him to die, though you know it will quicken your own death.  
His ribs crack easier than you thought they would, crack open and expose his heart like a treasure, and it is, the greatest treasure you can think of. You look at him. Challenging him to revel with you in depravity, to mimic everything that you are prepared to do. He does, and at that moment you do truly regret killing him. But only for a moment. Then you are leaning forward and licking his heart, making him groan and push you away. You are ashamed that your hands shake when take your knife and brush it against his heart, watching him shiver and swallow and dare you to actually do it. You cut into that muscle, that beautiful that kept him alive, cut into it and take away half of his heart. Scarcely after you’ve finished, his own trembling fingers are clutching at his knife and he is cutting into you. The feeling is almost familiar now, the sting, the ache, the blood bubbling and spilling over the edges, a new surge to soak the sheets so red. Lying there, feeling lightheaded, you see his face so close, and yet starting to blur out. You see his holding half your heart and you truly feel sick. That doesn’t stop you reaching out and touching his fingers, scraping the tips along your own heart. Holding his in your palm, as he does the same, and pushing them together; combining the two of you, two halves into a whole. Completing you. You know it is unforgivable what you do next, but you have always been damned, so, you don’t care. Instead, you smile, waiting to see if he will join you in the last circle of hell. You put his heart between your teeth, and you take a bite. You swallow. His breath catches and he licks his lips, and for a second you think you’ve finally won. You haven’t. His hands are shaking, but he still raises your heart to his lips, and he takes a bite. He swallows. You both stare at each other, knowing that you will forever be joined by your sickness. You both take another bite, and another and another, you chew and chew and swallow, and together you become monsters. You eat him because you hate what he has done to you, and because you want him to do it again and again and again. Dying is the most beautiful high you’ve ever had, and after just one taste you’re hooked, though you know this will be your final fix.  
The world spins as you climb to lie on top of him. His mouth tastes like you, and while it sounds narcissistic, you love it. By the way he closes his eyes, you can tell he too likes the taste of himself. He too has fallen in love with being a monster, and you don’t know why he wants to eat you, you assume it is because he hates you just as much. Lying there together, you on top, him below. Your throats clogged with bits of each other and your tongues stained red, you can feel yourself sliding into him, parts of you and him combining, mixing, merging. Your blood and his blood, your body and his body blurring together. It is more intimate than anything you’ve ever done, and ever want to do. The final moments of your life are the peaks. Your body and his body becoming one, sticking together under the hazy lights and on top of the blood-soaked sheets. You realise then what those holes you feel are. They are wants, they are desires, they are needs. They are _your_ wants, they are _your_ desires, they are _your_ needs. They are aching to be filled with him, and you hate him for it. Hate him so much, because somehow, he knew you better than even you knew yourself. He found the key to secrets parts of you that even you didn’t know about, and you hate him for doing that, for opening you up, exposing all the truly abhorrent things and dragging out all that he found. You know, even as you die, that you can never forgive him for what he did to you, even though you let him really.

Because you thought he loved you. 

 

And though he doesn’t say, he does love you. 

But that was why he had to kill you, because he loves you too much.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this wasn't too horrendous.


End file.
